


Don't Say a Word

by AlvaDomer



Series: Pain is Just Weakness [7]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 14:42:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7688413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlvaDomer/pseuds/AlvaDomer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armin was barely holding himself together before, but now it's clear his grip is slipping. Eren and Mikasa will have to work even harder to keep their house of cards from crumbling under prying eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Say a Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armin struggles with suicidal thoughts as he continues to become more emotionally unstable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's up guys! Sorry it's been so long since I've posted, life loves to get in the way. College starts in two weeks so hopefully I can get a lot done before then!
> 
> Armin's mindset was extremely difficult for me to capture (how I wanted it portrayed), and I restarted this chapter multiple times. Thank you for all the patience and I hope to hear from you in the comments!
> 
> Warnings for depictions of suicide attempts in this chapter. Please read with caution!

_Dirty._  That's how he felt. While words like ‘disgusting’ and ‘repulsive’ had stronger connotations, they just didn't sound right. Didn't _feel_ right. But _dirty_. That was perfect. Armin could feel the filth crawling beneath his skin. He was dirty, soiled, made unclean from the inside out.

         And Eren had seen it—not once, but _twice_.

         Now once again, Armin was making his best friend rescue him. Why was he alway this _weak?!_  He choked on the sob in his throat. Eren didn't deserve to be carrying him like this, to have been forced to watch something like _that_ , to have gotten involved at all! He was so, _so_ much more than Armin could ever dream to be, he didn't deserve to be put through this Hell too. Everything hurt, but worst of all was trying to imagine what Eren was thinking; what he was feeling.

         So Armin's eyes raked over the base, the ground, the sky—anything that wasn't Eren. His gripped the fabric of his friend’s shirt even tighter as he fought not to so much as glance at it.

         The body heat radiating against his torso as he was carried; the scent of the Corps’ cheap soap in Eren's hair; the telltale shuddering gasps of someone fighting back tears. Armin already had enough reminders of the fact that his best friend had seen…had seen _that_.

          So he avoided it. He clung to Eren tightly, pathetically, like a desperate child trying to keep his father from leaving for work. But he refused to make eye contact, to  _acknowledge_ it…

          Not even _it_ , but Eren. The thought of confronting him about what had happened set Armin's heart thundering just as much as the memories of the assault itself.

          So his solution was to focus on neither. He forced himself to study anything that didn't belong to the best friend currently carrying him. But as he glanced at the barracks, his breath caught in his throat.

          It had only been out of the corner of his eye, but it had looked undoubtedly real.

          Armin had seen himself, dangling from the roof with a noose around his throat.

          Of course when he had blinked, the apparition had vanished. But as his pulse rushed in his veins, he couldn't be more sure of what he had saw.

          “Ar-Armin you just got...really tense. Are you um...are you okay?”

          “Fine.” He cringed, eyes screwing shut tight. His voice was nothing more than a harsh rasp, cracking painfully from overuse. At the sound, Eren's grip on his legs tightened instinctively, and Armin had a single thought: _please kill me._

          It flooded his body like a poison, an urgent craving and his only solution. He knew, he had always known, that this was his only way out. Back then, with Reiner, he had been too weak. But maybe...maybe if he tried again…

          In the darkness beneath his lids, all he could see was his dangling corpse. It scared him how much if _didn’t_ scare him. The sight was inviting, almost bewitching. He needed that release so badly that he could feel the familiar burn of tears.

 _I will not cry_ , Armin thought, gut coiling with self loathing. He had put Eren through enough; he had already shown enough weakness. Not even the vivid fantasies of his grand, final escape would shake him. In fact, more images rushed to welcome him when he forced his eyes open.

           Everywhere he looked, he saw himself, dead or dying. His reflection in the glass made him want to break it in and use the shards to slit his wrists; dig it so deep into his flesh that he hit bone.

_I will not cry._

            As they got closer to the showers, Armin eyed the water tank almost greedily. The large container would be all too easily to slide into. With the lip shut, there would be no backing out. He saw himself slip inside, immediately weighted down by waterlogged boots. His breath sped up as he felt himself inhale gallon after gallon of water. It didn't matter how much he fought, he would lose consciousness in seconds and never have to wake up again.

 _I will not cry_. It was amazing how soothing this all was, really.

           Every vision got less realistic. He knew jumping from the top of the barracks wouldn't kill him. After joining a sect like the Survey Corps, one learned just what kind of drop the human body could sustain. But still, his heart thudded wildly as he watched himself run, leap from the roof. There was no sound as his body hit the ground—it was all in his head, after all. Eren blindly walked past Armin's corpse, neck bulging with misaligned vertebrae knocked loose by the landing.

 _I will not cry._  This was the kind of thing he deserved.

           He knew, he _knew_ he couldn't strangle himself with his own uniform. But the sleeve of his jacket was right up against his eyes; and if it was in his line of sight, his mind had to conjure up a grotesque way for him to die by it.

          “I'm gonna put you down now, okay?” Armin jolted in surprise, not expecting Eren's voice. “Can you stand?” He hadn't even noticed that they had stopped moving.

          Afraid to hear his own voice again, Armin just swallowed and nodded. Eren gently let go, easing Armin off of his back. He couldn't find the strength to stifle a pained gasp when his feet hit the ground. It was like an electric current shot through his legs, into his pelvis, and up his spine.

          “Are you—” Eren began to blurt, concern plastered across his face. But he quickly stopped himself, looking away gracelessly. “Let's just get you inside,” he muttered, and Armin held onto him for support silently.

          Once they had hobbled inside the changing room, Eren helped Armin down onto one of the benches between the rows of cubbies. They were refusing to look at each other and they both knew it. _Please don't say anything,_  Armin prayed, staring down at his lap. The silence was suffocating, but he had no idea what he would say if Eren started asking questions.

          Unsure of what else to do, he shrugged off his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt. He wanted to shower until he had scrubbed off every inch of filth beneath his skin. _Don’t look, don't look, don't look,_ he repeated as he peeled off his shirt, gut dropping at the thought of seeing his own body. At least Eren had the decency to continue looking away.

           With a small, shuddering sigh, Armin pushed back onto his feet. He couldn't swallow as began to push down his pants. His waistband was barely off his hips before he was _there_.

           He was back in the commander’s office, sniveling and shaking as he tried and failed not to think of what would happen next.

           Just as fast, he was in the changing room—in reality—again. But his fingers trembled as they brushed against the bruises on his legs. Armin folded in on himself as much as possible, hoping he could somehow make himself smaller and smaller until he stopped existing altogether. Taking off his clothes felt like a turtle removing its shell, as if buttons and cotton could protect him. He closed his eyes as he put his clothes in a cubby, so that he wouldn't have to see the bloodstains that proved him wrong.

           He knees felt weak as he started for the shower room, but he was determined to stay standing. It wasn't until he had one foot in the actual room that Eren shouted, “Wait, Armin!”

           He immediately looked ashamed of how loud he was, eyes averted even more intently now. “Do you want me to uh…” Eren's voice trailed off as he shuffled in place awkwardly. One look was all it took to have him sputtering, “R-right um, I-I'll just wait out here.”

           Armin didn't watch him go, listening to the rush of Eren's boots as he retreated. Then suddenly he was in a frenzy. His fingers slipped over the shower handle, couldn't turn the water on fast enough. He grabbed at the soap, cringing as he finally looked over his own body.

          Each day seemed to add more black and blue splotches on his skin. One of the marks on his hip was starting to turn green. A long black bruise stretched horizontally across his abdomen from being repeatedly slammed into the edge of furniture. Was it so much more pleasurable for Erwin to be so rough?

_I love making you bleed._

           He glanced down and found that dried blood still clung to his inner thighs. Eyes welling with tears, Armin began scrubbing at his body with soap until his skin was red and raw. It was—no— _he_  was so disgusting. He had to get it all off. All of Erwin’s touch; all of the older man’s weight; the tight grip Erwin kept on him as he tore him apart. Armin was sure that the more he scraped against his flesh, the less he would feel of the commander. But no matter how brightly his skin began to burn, the bruises remained. Erwin’s fingers still curled around his pelvis; still tore into his hair. It didn’t matter whether or not the commander was in sight. Armin could still feel the violation over and over.

           The soap bar dropped from his hand with a clatter. _Disgusting_. He had to get every agonizing second of that touch off. Armin rubbed the suds along his arms, but the man’s grip was still so tight. Arms folded across his chest, he rubbed harder, faster, skin burning beneath his fingernails. Still wasn't working, not gone! Scratching, scratching, scratching, scratching, digging, digging, digging, _gouging,_ —

           “Armin?!”

           Eren's voice snapped him to reality.

           “Armin, Armin stop it! You're hurtin’ yourself!” The fear in his voice was nauseating.

           Even as he looked down at his trembling hands, Armin knew it was Eren that hurt more than what he had done; ripping open his upper arms until his palms were slick with blood. It didn't matter. Armin knew more than ever now that pain was hardly a measure of what could and couldn't heal.

           But fear.

           That was something that never went away. And Eren was overflowing with it.

           “What the hell are you—” a deep sigh, and he started again. “It’s fine, everything’s fine, Mikasa can swipe more supplies.” Armin couldn't think of a thing to say. He had expected frustration, anger, fear even. But Eren's voice remained steady and so determined, strong with an underlying message of, _we're going to do anything it takes for you._

           It scared him.

           Animalistic terror took violent hold of him, and every part of his body screamed, _Get out! Get away!_ This wasn't right. It wasn't natural for something as weak as himself to be protected—to survive. Shadis was right, he should have been picked off outside the Walls months ago. _Useless, worthless, piece of shit slut_. He didn't deserve good people like Eren or Mikasa protecting him, loving him like he was anything more than trash. Armin had been ripped to tatters like the uniforms he had seen; he deserved to be incinerated like them. Why did he always have to bleed like this? Why couldn't he just die already?! Why—

           Something warm enveloped him. Armin blinked. A towel. Damp brown hair against his cheek, and he realized Eren was kneeling beside him. _Why am I on the floor?_  He was sitting on his knees on the cold tile. When had the water turned off?

           His thoughts were so scattered, it was hard to focus on one for too long. But the confusion faded to white noise. It buzzed in his head, chasing away the anger and self hatred in exchange for numbness.

           Total numbness and Eren's warmth. Armin could still feel Eren’s hair tickling his cheek, arms wrapped around his shoulders to hold the towel in place. So warm. Armin closed his eyes and leaned into it, his breath slowing with the gentle rhythm of Eren's heartbeat.

           And in that moment, he cried.

           Nothing had changed. No one was different. Armin still had just as much of a chance of being raped as he had that morning. Hell, his forearms were still bleeding onto the floor. But Eren was there, and he was brave and so unbelievably full of love.

           Deep down, Armin still knew he didn't deserve it. _Pathetic, disgraceful, military whore,_ his mind hissed, but Eren held him tighter. And he cried.


End file.
